April 29, 2010

Buteo.

~ In order to keep this blog semi-active at the very least, here's some rather old, painful poetry.

~ Loss can make people drink, over-eat, harm themselves, or others, or just waste away. Me? I massacre the English language in a vaguely verse-like form. Oh well, it kept me occupied. I wrote this quite a while back, in late September. It was the first poetry i'd written in years.

Also, this poem. It's all true. every word. I don't think the memory of that crow will ever leave me.

Friday 10:30

When they played Aerosmith

At your funeral

We tried to smile

As your photo

Danced with the vibrations

Of that bloody guitar solo.

*

We stared and waited

For that same stupid grin

When we’d forgive the big joke

And go back to yours

To act like kids

And whinge about school.

*

But you made the vicar cry

And we all held it together

For your mother

But when that crow came

And sang to silence

No-one dare breathe.

Year 11. Patto. Football.


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